I get to the bottom of the garden, two acres down the hill, in full regal paraphernalia. The sit-on lawnmower is carrying me, a few torture instruments from the garden shed, a heavy-duty strap-on 25L can of weed killer spray, a collapsible cuttings bin, and my Epipen - in case I have an unfortunate encounter with a wasp.

I know that, under the heavy curtain of weeds, there is a long-forgotten wooden garden fence, which separates the 'formal' part of the lawn (well, formal is a bit grand; let's say the part of the lawn which is not allowed to grow taller than me) from wild pasture stretching along the river. The land beyond the weed curtain is ours too, but we let the local farmers use it for their beef cattle. Across the river, sunk somewhere in the overgrown vegetation, is Mr Vroom's lovely house, surrounded by decadent outbuildings and carefully tended lawns.

My very own Robinson Crusoe.

I have no idea how Mr Vroom spends his time; in my imagination, he often pours over old books about the history of V6 engines, or mends the wobbly glasshouse, carefully and tenderly.

When the entire world seems to be driven by social success and public status, Mr Vroom looks like he has carved his own existence almost entirely built upon a tangible idea of happiness, of what makes him alive.

I can see, even by the way he moves along the barely sketched pathways scratching the surrounding countryside, that he does not fear nature, nor does he endure it: he quietly harnesses and reins in its power.

We moved away from the city a year ago, and I am a nostalgic townie; that is to say, someone who misses the fast beating of London and its schizophrenic realities in the same way we might miss the joyful summer days of our childhood: with affection, but no plans to move back there.

In my determination to become acquainted with this new, cruder but more substantial kind of life, I have looked up to Mr Vroom as an omniscient, self-sufficient demi-god of the forest. I suspect that he might even be able to build a life-size, perfectly working wind turbine, if he put his mind to it.

I, on the other hand, having failed to acquire a pair of high-heel garden wellies (I did say that I am a townie, after all), climb off the lawnmower, teetering on my Shelley open cork wedges. Possibly not ideal for cutting the grass, but they do come in a pretty flower print material. It does also occur to me that weeding six-foot-tall stinging nettles in hot pants and strappy top may not be a wise idea.

At least I have a large rimmed hat to protect me from the sun. It is a shame that it gets in the way and tangles up with giant hogweed when I start inspecting the iron curtain between me and the obliterated fence.

I know I am much more at ease in front of a frothy cappuccino somewhere trendy in the West End, or jotting down my thoughts in cyberspace. After all, Miss Emma of old was in PR, and the power of words has always had the greatest allure for me.

It never occurred to me that Mr V might be capable of using a search engine as well as servicing a tractor engine. I arrogantly assumed that, whilst I might be allowed to dip my carefully pedicured foot in the occasional muddy puddle and play hot country pursuits, osmosis from Barbour jackets into modern technology could not possibly take place in the opposite direction.

What goes through the mind of a person who suddenly discovers himself as a main character in somebody else's suspended fantasies? Could he possibly just feel anger, betrayal and disappointment for a purported breach of trust?

I have rarely cried in front of a man. What made it utterly unbearable was his inability to hold me whilst I did.